


The Minister's Cat

by siderealOtaku



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Body Worship, Bottom Ferdinand von Aegir, First Time, Hand and Finger Kink, M/M, Playful Sex, Playing Games in Bed, Top Hubert von Vestra, also lots of parlor games, but ferdinand more than makes up for it, warning for some mocking of hubert at first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:25:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23150128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siderealOtaku/pseuds/siderealOtaku
Summary: On a visit to Gloucester territory, Hubert and Ferdinand are introduced to a new parlor game. Hubert is annoyed and bored, but Ferdinand sees a way to finally admit how he truly feels....
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 14
Kudos: 350





	The Minister's Cat

**Author's Note:**

> Hubert needed some love, so I wrote a bodyworship fic.....that ended up having a ton of Hubert-teasing at first, even though I love him. Oops. I'm sorry, Hubie. At least you get some hot Ferdie lovin'?

They had retired after dinner to a sumptuous parlor decorated, as nearly every part of the Gloucester manor seemed to be, with a surfeit of roses. Rose-patterned couches perched atop a rose-petal strewn rug, and each spindly end table played host to far too many vases of rainbow-hued, strongly-scented flowers. Even the wallpaper featured an eye-searing design: winding vines playing host to Gloucester-blue buds, stiff dark thorns bursting with thick, trembling white drops of what was presumably meant to be sap, or possibly the world's least accurately pictured poison. 

Hubert was in hell. The room was stifling, its decoration odious. There was no coffee to be found, only sickly-sweet ruby port in crystal glasses (rose-shaped, of course) and a variety of teas, each with a name more flowery and ostentatious than the last. And the company - well, suffice to say that the antics of one very tipsy Lorenz Hellman Gloucester were more than enough to erase the presence of anyone else whom he might have labeled as "tolerable". 

They'd come here for entirely business-related purposes, to discuss a proposed breeding agreement between the Empire and the Alliance's finest equestrian stud farms. Gloucester had insisted that any conversation about their official business be postponed until -after- they had sat through a seemingly interminable dinner. Nine courses, from a thin herbal broth all the way through to lemon cakes festooned with spun-sugar roses, all the while talking of nothing more substantial than Court fashions or the Mittelfrank Opera Company's latest production. 

And now, with only the party from Enbarr, the Count himself, and his nearest and dearest (an equally tipsy Duke Riegan, who had seemed quite gleeful to let Lorenz host the negotiations for once, the Professor, as stone-faced as ever despite the merry company, plus a sharp-tongued Lady Goneril escorting a shy Margravine Edmund) ensconced in this awful rose-petal room, instead of getting on with the Goddess-damned discussion already, Gloucester had had the gall to suggest...

...that they play parlor games? 

"Tell me, Duke Aegir, Lady Arnault," Lorenz giggled from behind his third glass of port, completely ignoring Hubert in favor of addressing only his traveling companions, "has the Minister's Cat enjoyed any popularity in Enbarr yet?" He crossed on leg over another as he signaled a servant to bring him yet another glass. The ever-observant, ever-ignored Adrestian Minister noted (with no small amount of disgust) that even the Leicester man's blasted socks were embroidered with tiny roses. 

"No, none of our ministers have cats. Although I think Hubie would get along well with one - they're both particular and hate people." Dorothea giggled and clinked her glass against Hilda's.

"Your sense of humor is as droll as ever, Lady Arnault, and I'm sure many court poets have compared Marquis Vestra to beings of the feline persuasion" Lorenz practically simpered, "but you mistake my meaning. The Minister's Cat is a parlor game which has recently become beloved among nobles in the Alliance. It was designed to be played in settings such as this exact one - a harmless little diversion for the mind while the stomach digests. One proposes a topic - such as a cat, hence the name of the game - and endeavors to describe it using words in strict alphabetical order, from A all the way down to Z, until someone is stumped. Why, just last moon Duke Riegan played a round with the Almyran delegration which lasted nearly an hour and ran through the alphabet seven and a half times!"

Hubert held out the slightest hope that either Ferdinand or Dorothea would say what he himself was merely thinking, and suggest that they forego the insipid-sounding game and instead get down to business. Unfortunately, that hope had been utterly foolish, because Dorothea clapped her hands, obviously delighted, while the Prime Minister flashed one of those dazzling sunlight smiles and told Lorenz that the stupid game sounded "utterly fascinating".

"I find the game most fun when we are describing people," Claude announced, his ever-sharp eyes scanning the assembled company as he sipped at his port. "Someone who we all know, perhaps?"

Lorenz's face creased into a distinctly un-noble pout. "Yes, my dear Duke, I know you do, but let's start our Adrestian guests off with an easier challenge, so that they do not tire of our game before having even truly experienced it. I had thought, instead, that we might begin by describing..." The pause which followed was (at least in Hubert's mind) far too obviously calculated, designed for maximum dramatic effect. "...this very parlor we are seated in, perhaps?"

"Oh, oh, very well," the Leicester Duke responded, rolling his eyes in a similarly exggerated fashion as he humored the "put-upon" Count. "Let's have the first round then, shall we. I'll begin: we are sitting in an adorned parlor." Hubert still saw no point to the game, but he had to admit that the Alliance leader's assessment had been an accurate one - the amount of decoration in the room had long passed "tasteful" and leapfrogged over "ostentatious" entirely, landing somewhere around "altogether too much".

  
"We are sitting in an adorned, _beautiful_ parlor," Lorenz snapped, seemingly unhappy with how Claude had described the room. He waved his arms, as though attempting to encompass the roses, the horrible wallpaper, the multiple tea sets, and the thick, plush carpet with a single gesture.

"Ooh, ooh, I wanna play!" Dorothea shot her hand into the air and waved it frantically back and forth. "We are sitting in an adorned, beautiful, crowded parlor!"

"Excellent, Lady Arnault," Claude praised (while Lorenz continued to pout). "The room is indeed quite crowded with all of us here sharing in one another's most pleasant comapny. Duke Aegir? Marquis Vestra? Might one of you wish to take the next turn?"

"I shall." Unlike Hubert, Ferdinand seemed perfectly at home in this stupid parlor. The too-bright, dazzling lights caught the ends of his long hair, making him look as though he was wreathed in sunlight. He took to the game just as well "We are sitting in an adorned, beautiful, crowded, daring parlor. Really, Lorenz - this style is absolutely going to be all the rage in Enbarr next season, just you wait. You'll be heralded as ahead of your time and a daring thinker on the cutting edge of modern art."

"Thank you, my dearest Aegir," Lorenz replied with a smile, not before sticking out his tongue at Claude as if Ferdinand's singular comment had erased all of the man's teasing.

Duke Riegan ignored the blue-haired noble's taunt. "That makes it your turn next, Vestra old boy."

Hubert thoroughly disliked being referred to as "old boy". He loathed the parlor. He hated the game. Still, he couldn't possibly bear to think about the look of disappointment on Ferdinand's face should he fail to participate, or fail to take things seriously and instead make a mockery of this idiotic parlor pastime. (Which wasn't the reason he begrudgingly agreed to take his turn. Really, it wasn't. It was because this was a diplomatic mission, which he must carry out as Lady Edelgard willed, and for no other reason whatsoever.)

"Elegant," the dark-haired man ground out between his teeth, trying to hide how little he actually agreed with the assessment. "We are sitting in an...." Luckily, although he had been paying little attention to the game, his near-perfect recall allowed the previous descriptors to fall almost immediately from his lips. "An adorned, beautiful, crowded, daring, elegant parlor."

The game continued from there, with Hilda deciding that the room was "fancy," the Professor allowing that it was "grand," and Marianne shyly rounding out the group by coming up with "homey," which sparked what Hubert guessed was the most genuine smile Lorenz had given the entire evening. The circle began again, with Claude winking at the Professor when he suggested "intimate" and Lorenz following it up with "jewel-like," which Hubert privately thought should not have counted, as it was _two_ words, but did not comment on because he did not consider it to be worth either the time or effort.

Luckily, Dorothea - having drowned yet another full glass in the time since her last turn - got absolutely stumped by the letter "K," pausing and thinking for at least a full minute before ultimately conceding defeat. Hubert internally rejoiced, thrilled that the ridiculous parlor game was at last over and they could get down to business without him being required to suggest a second word - but, of course, it was not to be his lucky evening. Claude immediately proposed another round, and, when he deferred to Professor Byleth to come up with a topic, was rewarded with their bland-voiced suggestion of none other than "Seteth".

The assembled group (sans Hubert, of course, who would never deign to partake in such public outbursts of hilarity) had a good laugh at that, and Dorothea, eager to make up for her loss in the last round, volunteered to go first. "Seteth," she announced grandly, gesturing with her glass as though she were standing on stage at the Mittelfrank Opera House about to deliver an aria, "is an ANNOYING man."

Claude, Hilda and Lorenz (publicly) and Hubert (privately) agreed with her.

None of them had any particularly fond memories of Seteth's seemingly endless seminars and sermons which they had been subjected to during their Garreg Mach days.

Ferdinand took the next turn, and the smirk on his face when he said that Seteth was an "annoying, boring man" made something in Hubert's stomach twist in ways he did not particularly wish to examine in greater depth.

The Minister's brain worked frantically, assuming that he would be called upon next based on the turn order in the previous game, but to his surprise, Claude volunteered first, waving his hand in the air like a schoolboy who is certain that he has come up with the correct answer to an especially difficult question.

"Ooh, oh! I've got it! I've got it! Seteth is an annoying, boring, Cicholean man!"

The grimace which adorned Lorenz's face was almost enough to make even Hubert let out a chuckle. "That's not a word, Claude!" the Count began, "and furthermore, -what- have I told you about spilling state secrets in the middle of dinners with..." he trailed off into a dramatic whisper "-the enemy-?"

"I knew," said Dorothea airily.

"As did I," Ferdinand added. Hubert, for his part, merely nodded.

"I thought everyone knew by now." This from the Professor. "He's horrible about concealing it. Flayn's even worse."

"'Cicholean' still isn't a word," insisted Lorenz.

"It is too," argued Claude.

"Not," said Hilda.

"W-why don't we ask our guests?" suggested Marianne, looking slightly terrified at the prospect of an argument breaking out.

"Splended idea," responded the quite obviously still-miffed Lorenz. "Marquis Vestra, as

you spend far too much time with those dusty old books of yours, we shall defer to your esteemed judgment." He spoke the words as though they tasted of the bitterest, darkest coffee, practically spitting each syllable from his mouth.

Once again, Hubert found himself in the spotlight - although, he had to admit, it was far more tolerable this time, as it came with the chance to utterly humiliate Claude. "I have indeed read many books, Count Gloucester," he allowed, "and in none of them have I ever encountered such a word is 'Cicholean'. Riegan loses."

"Hah!" cheered Lorenz, toasting Hubert with his glass of sickly-sweet wine. "Vestra said it plainly, my dear Duke, the defeat is yours!"

Claude actually looked put out - for all of a moment, before the customary schemer's glint returned to his eyes. "Well, then, as the 'loser,' as our friend the Marquis so kindly put it, I shall take it upon myself to come up with the topic for the next round of our game. And I declare," he announced rather dramatically, clearly taking a leaf out of Lorenz's book, "that the topic shall be none other than the good Marquis Hubert von Vestra himself!"

Hilda snorted her laughter. "Oh excellent idea, Claude, let's do Hubert!" (As observant as said Marquis usually was, he utterly failed to notice the slight blush which colored Ferdinand's cheeks at the wording of that particular pronouncement.)

"And furthermore," the yellow-clad Duke continued, "let me begin by saying that Hubert von Vestra is an abysmal, awful, abrasive man!"

"An abysmal, awful, abrasive, baleful, brooding man," Dorothea chimed in.

"Abysmal, awful, abrasive, baleful, brooding, cross, crotchety!" Hilda seemed to be enjoying herself. Even Marianne hid a giggle behind her delicately raised hand.

Lorenz rang for another glass of port, and had managed to drain nearly half of it before finally coming up with his words. "Abysmal, awful, abrasive, baleful, brooding, cross, crotchety, and dreadfully dark, dull and dreary is our Hubert!" he announced.

  
Although Marianne wasn't above laughing at the others' contributions, she did not quite seem to have the courage to say anything particularly harsh herself, instead settling on a basic, objective fact. "Abysmal, awful, a-abrasive, um....baleful and brooding, cross and cr-crotchety, dreadfully...what was it you said, Lorenz? Oh, er, dreadfully dark, dull and dreary. And, er...Educated! Hubert is certainly educated." (Hubert supposed, then, that he would spare her in his fantasies of obliterating everyone in the room with a sudden burst of dark magic.)

  
"Oh come, Marianne, I'm sure you can say worse," Claude wheedled, but the blue-haired noblewoman only shook her head and refused to comment further.

Next was the Professor's turn. Any hope Hubert might have had of them sparing him as one of their former students was immediately evaporated as the tiniest of smirks played at the corner of their mouths. "Abysmal, awful, abrasive, baleful, brooding, cross, crotchety, dreadfully dark, dull, dreary, educated," they recited, "as well as fastidious, fearfully fanatical in his devotion towards our Emperor, and fond of flaunting the flaws of his friends. Not to mention forbidding."

"Excellent, Professor," Claude clapped them on the back, no longer even trying to hide his amusement. "Say, Vestra, that makes it your turn next, doesn't it?"

"Do have some decency, Duke Riegan, we can't very well ask the man to describe himself," Lorenz put in.

"Then I'll take his turn for him," Claude responded, eagerly snapping up yet another opportunity to taunt the glaring Marquis. He recited the words which had come before quickly, as he had once frequently done when called to the front of the class by Professor Byleth. "Abysmal, awful, abrasive, baleful, brooding, cross, crotchety, dreadfully dark, dull, and dreary, educated, fastidious, fearfully fanatical, fond of flaunting the flaws of his friends, forbidding, grim and grumpy! And that leaves Duke Aegir, does it not?"

"Ah, yes, dear Ferdinand, do share with us whatever you've got to say," Lorenz was practically giggling into his drink. "Don't hold back on our account. We're all friends here, aren't we?" (A statement Hubert fully and thoroughly disagreed with, although his stone-faced glare did not betray this in the slightest.)

"Er, right, Lorenz, thank you, it does seem to be my turn, doesn't it?" Was it just Hubert's imagination, or did Ferdinand von Aegir sound -nervous-? The Minister of the Imperial Household is not entirely sure, because, well...he's having trouble looking at Ferdinand as he takes his turn in this awful game.

  
"Abysmal, awful, abrasive." Ferdinand is speaking quickly, as though he wants to get this over and done with. "Baleful, brooding, cross, crotchety," He doesn't _sound_ like he's laughing as he insults Hubert, but the Marquis doesn't let him think about the expression that might be on his face. "Dreadfully dark, dull, dreary, educated." Because Hubert, ever-confident, ever-cold, ever-uncaring Hubert, can't bring himself to look at Ferdinand's face as the man speaks. "Fastidious, fearfully fanatical, fond of flaunting the flaws of his friends...." He's speeding up now, and the words are running together like the syllables of some dark spell. "Forbiddinggrimgrumpy, and...." Ferdinand pauses, and Hubert feels his shoulders tense imperceptibly. He doesn't want to hear what cruel words Ferdinand will come up with to describe him, Goddess damn him, it stings in a way that nobody else in the gathered company's insults had managed to.

The letter which Ferdinand has been assigned is "H". Will he say, "horrid"? Hubert thinks. Perhaps "haggard," as the Aegir noble is always fond of informing him that he looks like he hasn't gotten a full night's sleep in years. "Hateful?" That seems a bit strong, even for Ferdinand, but, buoyed by the wine and the laughter and the cutting remarks everyone else had already made....

And then, after a silence which seems to last eternity, Ferdinand von Aegir's strident, clear, confident tones:

"Handsome."

  
Hubert freezes. Claude makes a noise that sounds like something between an aborted laugh and a strangled cough. Lorenz drops his wineglass, although it makes barely a sound against the overly carpeted floor of the parlor.

Hubert freezes. Claude makes a noise that sounds like something between an aborted laugh and a strangled cough. Lorenz drops his wineglass, although it makes barely a sound against the overly carpeted floor of the parlor.

"Helpful," Ferdinand says, his voice small now, lacking confidence in the silence which had followed his first word. "A-always willing to help his friends and former classmates with anything they need, ever since our time at Garreg Mach. Honest. Unafraid to speak truths that the rest of us need to hear, however uncomfortable they may be." His voice grows stronger and more sure as he continues. "Hard-working, of course, although sometimes to the detriment of his own needs - he _still_ doesn't sleep nearly enough, even now in peacetime. Headstrong. A quality I used to find endlessly frustrating, when we argued, but now I understand is extremely valuable for someone in an important position like Hubert's to have. N-not to mention heroic, high-class, high-reaching, honorable, humble...."

His voice lowered, as though he were intoning a prayer rather than merely speaking a few descriptive words. "....Hypnotic, and both heart-warming and heart-stopping," Ferdinand finished, his cheeks now as red as the endlessly present roses.

The bright noble's eyes met Hubert's single visible one. For a moment, Hubert thought that he was being sun-burnt by the heat of Ferdinand's gaze, until he realized that he was merely blushing a red deeper even than the surfeit of Gloucester roses.

Speaking of Gloucester - it is Lorenz's awkward titter of a laugh, far too forced, which breaks Ferdinand and Hubert's held, endless, silent gaze. "Oh, come come, Ferdie darling, I understand that you've got to work with the man, but you needn't hold yourself back in _this_ company. Nobody will judge you for being honest rather than kind."

Of course, Hubert thinks. A joke. One which Ferdinand will immediately recant, now that Lorenz has provided him the appropriate opening for doing so.

But he does not.

"Lorenz, my dear friend." His voice is low and dangerous, and the shiver it provokes in Hubert traverses the entire length of the Minister's poker-straight spine. "I am willing to excuse your words because you are dear to me, but is it truly so impossible a thought that I might hold Hubert close to my heart, and wish to describe him in flattering terms rather than cruel? That my feelings for him might be something other than disdain?"

Lorenz shrinks back against his plush chair, wilting like one of his roses. "Y-you were rivals...." he defends with a whispery whine.

"Once, yes, at Garreg Mach, indeed I did consider this fine man my rival. But now...."

Ferdinand turns to look at him again, and Hubert cannot take it. He clears his throat, feeling far too shaky for the small amount of alcohol which he has consumed this evening.

"Interrupting something. I is the next letter, is it not, and there, there is my contribution to the game. Hubert von Vestra is interrupting a conversation he very much wishes to no longer be a part of." Then, before he allows himself to take in the expressions of the gathered company (and especially Ferdinand), Hubert turns on his heel and exits the room as quickly as he possibly can without having to resort to the darker magics under his command.

XXX

The knock on his door comes sooner than Hubert expects.

He's barely made it back to the safety of his guest room deep within the Gloucester mansion when a frenzied flurry of raps ring out. "I don't need anything," he snaps, struggling to unclasp his cape with fingers that feel damnably numb and clumsy.

The knocking continues. Hubert realizes that it is not a too-attentive Gloucester servant asking if he needs his bedcovers turned down or his shoes unlaced or his tea poured.

"Go away, von Aegir," he says. It's been years since he's referred to his fellow Minister so formally anywhere outside of an official setting. It stings, slightly - but what stung worse were those damnably pretty lies which had slipped from Ferdinand's lips during the parlor game.

"Vestra... _Hubert,_ please, open the door. Please." Ferdinand sounds broken. Desperate. He probably _is_ genuinely sorry for messing with Hubert, the Minister muses. For getting caught in the spirit of the game. Despite having raised himself to a high political position and successfully holding it for years, Ferdinand von Aegir has never quite learned the art of subtlety. There's no doubt that the emotion in his voice is anything other than real.

 _Still...I cannot..._ Without thinking, Hubert finds his feet carrying him to the other side of the door. He splays one white-gloved palm against the solid wood, trying (and failing) not to imagine the sorrowful look Ferdinand was almost certainly sporting right about now.

Ferdinand's breath hitches, as though stifling a sob, and something inside Hubert's icy heart shatters. "There's no need to apologize, Ferdinand," he says truthfully, stroking the wood of the door and trying not to imagine doing the same to von Aegir's sun-kissed orange locks. "It was a game, and the wine loosened everyone's tongues and encouraged...brutal honesty. I am fine. It is not as though I have not heard much crueler jabs directed my way over the years. It is to be expected - I am, after all, the one who cut My Lady's bloody path."

Hubert pauses, unsure how to continue, but certain that Ferdinand needs to hear what he has to say. "A-and....please do not think I am not grateful to you for jumping to my defense, Ferdinand. It was not necessary, as my skin is thick enough to handle the sharpest barbs, yet, it was still quite kind of you. Dramatic, and a bit more exaggerated than necessary, but...kind. I....I thank you, Ferdinand."

He waits, thinking that the matter is settled. Thinking that Ferdinand will be satisfied and depart.

He does not. Endless moments pass, and Hubert can still hear Ferdinand's heavy breaths on the other side of the door.

And then, finally, Ferdinand speaks, sounding far less confident than he had back in the stifling, rose-filled parlor:

"I was not being dramatic, Hubert. Nor was I exaggerating."

Hubert isn't sure how to respond. He isn't sure whether to laugh or cry or scream or curse Ferdinand's name. He settles for "W-what?" hating how his voice breaks on the single syllable.

Ferdinand again, his voice growing stronger, though still choked with something that Hubert desperately doesn't want to think might be tears: "If you are going to reject my declaration of feelings, Hubert, then please at least have the dignity to do it while looking me in the eye."

The door slams open, Hubert barely conscious that he had been the one who opened it. There, standing in the plush-carpeted rose-papered hallway, is the most beautiful sight which Hubert von Vestra has ever seen in his entire life.

Ferdinand's cheeks are flushed, his mouth slightly parted, revealing the most tantalizing hint of a pink tongue peeking from between full lips. His eyes are blown wide, black pupils devouring honey-gold irises as he looks at Hubert like he is a delicious treat worth savoring. His cravat is undone, his cape half-off, as though he had been torn between finding Hubert and getting out of his stuffy formalwear as soon as possible. He is wearing only one glove, and the revealed hand is pale and trembling. Hubert wants to grip it tightly and never let go.

"It...it was not my attention to reject anything! I merely thought you were standing up for me during that awful game. I couldn't possibly have known that you meant...that you meant to..."

"You ran away, Hubert." Ferdinand's words are accusatory. "You ran away while I was trying to _confess_ to you."

Although he feels as though his feet have been swept out from under him, Hubert desperately tries to retain his metaphorical footing. "Ferdinand von Aegir, are you saying you decided to share your feelings for me during a _parlor game?"_

Ferdinand has the decency to blush at this. "I didn't _mean_ to! Only...only the others started saying those awful things, and I...simply could not contain myself."

The thought of Ferdinand von Aegir being _unable to contain himself_ around Hubert sends a jolt of pure _wanting_ through said man's loins. "So you meant it?" His voice is low, intense, almost shy.

"Every word."

A pause. Neither man is quite sure which of them will break the silence.

Perhaps to both of their surprise, it is Ferdinand who does so. "And I could do much more than just "H," too." He stands up straighter, puffing out his chest as Hubert has seen him do during so many arguments back in their monastery days.

"Oh?" Hubert's mouth is dry. He isn't quite sure if he sounds seductive or nervous. He's never been in a situation quite like this one before - but _oh,_ escaping it is absolutely the last thing he wants.

"I am no bard or poet, nor skilled in the art of writing love letters, but I could employ the entire alphabet in describing everything about you which catches my attention, Hubert von Vestra." Ferdinand's voice is low. Dangerous.

Hubert steps backwards. He feels a smile creeping across his thin lips. "That sounds like a challenge, Ferdinand von Aegir."

"I agree, my dear Hubert - and have you ever known me to back down?" Ferdinand asks just before he pounces.

Hubert raises his arms, catching Ferdinand as they tumble backwards onto the bed. It's not graceful, it's not elegant, but it's _perfect,_ the door slamming behind them as they cross the entirety of the wide, sumptuous guest chamber with a few stumbling steps. Ferdinand lands on top of Hubert, all warm, flushed skin and heated breath tickling Hubert's earlobes, his temples, the hollow of his throat.

"A," the sun himself whispers as his deft hands make quick work of the buttons on Hubert's jacket. "A is for accurate. Even when I hated you, even when we fought back at Garreg Mach, it was because you _knew_ me. Knew things about me that I wasn't willing to admit, because I was young and headstrong. And "admirable" - I looked up to you, even then. The way you served so loyally. The way you carried out even the darkest and grimmest of tasks with such confidence. Your self-assurance when I was lost and desperate to prove myself."

The jacket slips from Hubert's shoulders, leaving him in nothing but a thin white undershirt. "Not to mention _adorable,"_ Ferdinand teases. "Why, Hubert von Vestra, did you know that you're blushing?"

"I....I...am?" Hubert stammered. He raised his hands to his cheeks. To his surprise, instead of the usual porcelain-cool skin, he feels a flush of heat. He is not a blushing man but, Goddess damn it, Ferdinand von Aegir can simply _do_ these things to him like no one else can.

"You are absolutely adorable - and there's another A-word - when you blush, and I would like to make you do it many more times," Ferdinand declares, before biting down at the junction of Hubert's neck and shoulder.

Hubert wants to say something clever here, but his brain is fully occupied processing the fact that Ferdinand's tongue is tracing long, elegant stripes up and down the pale column of his throat. Instead, all he can find it in himself to say are two simple words: "Please do".

He feels Ferdinand laugh against his chest, and he feels warm and light and happy and _perfect._

"B, of course, is for _beautiful,_ which I had wished to avoid using because it is the tritest of adjectives, appearing in far too many insipid love songs and amateur poetic compositions. But how can I, Hubert, for beautiful is what you _are_." Ferdinand runs fingers through coal-black locks. He pushes back Hubert's bangs, bringing his usually hidden eye into view. " _Knew_ it was just as pretty as the other one," he says, his tone gentle but completely sincere.

"Brave and brilliant - oh yes, don't think I've forgotten to compliment you on your mind, you vain thing," he teases, feathering kisses along Hubert's hairline, mouthing at his surprisingly sharp widow's peak. "Your intelligence arouses me, to the point where I've found my pants inconveniently tightening while we trade arguments in the conference rooms of Enbarr." (Hubert files that knowledge away for future use. That is _quite_ a deadly weapon which Ferdinand has just provided him, and he will not soon forget about it.)

"Breathtaking. Indeed, sometimes it is though my body forgets how to take in air whenever you draw near me, my dearest dark Minister." The Prime Minister slips his hands beneath Hubert's undershirt, exploring uncharted territory without hesitation. His sun-bright skin gains a blush of his own as he discovers that the dark mage is far more muscular than perhaps he had imagined even in his most secret, erotic fantasies.

With a single motion - putting his well-honed lancer's strength to good use - Ferdinand sweeps the shirt upwards, revealing the entirety of Hubert's bare chest and abdominals to his eager gaze. "Oh, _oh,"_ the Prime Minister practically purrs. "It seems that I can also refer to you as _built,_ or perhaps even _beefy_." His eager fingers caress each dip and divot between the mage's abs. "Or _cut_ or _chiseled,_ if I move on to the next letter of the alphabet. But that's only because I fear you'd turn me to cinders where I stand if I dared to say _cute."_

"You're ridiculous," Hubert says, but there's no heat in it - and then, when Ferdinand's fingers on his muscles are replaced with Ferdinand's tongue, seeking every crack and crevice of the newly revealed flesh, Hubert finds himself unable to say anything at all. 

He is, he realizes with a mix of elation and dismay, more than slightly weak to von Aegir's tongue.

"Well, you know what you are? Delicious."Without any buildup or warning, Ferdinand takes three fingers at once into his mouth, sucking them down like a champion. Hubert's long, bony, magic-scarred digits are probably the part of his body he's most self-conscious about, but Ferdinand sucks and licks them like he's tasting the most delicious dish in one of Gloucester's endless-coursed banquets.

Hubert has been trying to simply enjoy the experience, holding back the desire to comment at each and every one of Ferdinand's ridiculous protestations of affection. But this time, he is unable to keep quiet. "Ferdinand, _please,_ I know my hands are...nothing pleasant to look at. _Delicious_ seems more than a bit far-fetched."

Ferdinand removes the fingers from his mouth long enough to speak, but keeps his own hands wrapped tightly around them as though they are the most precious things in all of Fodlan. "They taste of nothing else but _you,_ Hubie darling, dearest. The sweat and salt and smoke of your unyielding determination...it's a flavor entirely your own. And I would rather dine on it than sip the Empire's finest wines."

Briefly, Ferdinand's litany of praise stops as he thoroughly coats every inch of the taller man's fingers with saliva. Hubert, having realized his intentions, feels his blush deepening even further. His duty as the Emperor's Shadow has never afforded him the time to enjoy another's company so...intimately. And yet, he wants this. Wants _Ferdinand,_ honeyed words and teasing tongue and all.

Hubert strokes a hand through Ferdinand's hair with his unoccupied hair. "You're wearing too much," he whispers, unsure if he is allowed to say such a thing.

His fingers rest against Ferdinand's lips, feeling the shape of every word his beloved speaks. "Why, von Vestra, could you be asking me to strip for you?"

Hubert has felt off-balance throughout the entire encounter. Now, he seizes on a chance to regain the upper hand. "What if I were in fact, not asking, but rather _commanding?_ It would be quite...oh, what letter were we up to? Ah, yes, "E". Quite _enchanting._ Quite _erotic_."

Now Ferdinand is blushing - but, to his credit, he jumps eagerly to his feet and begins removing his own clothing. It's rushed, hasty, far too quick and ungraceful to count as truly seductive, yet Hubert's own still-on pants tighten uncomfortably with each inch of revealed skin. Ferdinand's nipples blush a dark pink. His chest is dusted with small, fine hairs, the exact same sunset-orange shade as the gorgeous locks adorning his head. A thicker tuft of that glorious hair surrounds what is unmistakably Ferdinand von Aegir's proud, flushed, fully erect cock. 

Proceeding entirely without words (for the first time in this entire encounter), the nude, sculpted god that is Ferdinand moves forward, his hands reaching eagerly for the waistband of Hubert's pants. Hubert finds himself divested of both pants and smallclothes more quickly than he could have thought possible. Now they are _both_ nude, and Ferdinand is...Ferdinand is...

Staring unabashedly, lust in his eyes and heat on his cheeks, his gaze zeroed in on the equally erect length of Hubert's newly-revealed cock.

The noble breathes something, barely an exhaled puff of air, too quiet for Hubert to hear.

"What did you say?" he asks.

" _Fuckable,"_ Ferdinand whispers, taking Hubert's cock in hand and beginning to stroke, even though the dark-haired Minister is harder than he can ever remember being in his entire life. "F is for how Goddess-damned _fuckable_ you look right now"

Hubert's confidence rises along with his erection. "Well then, von Aegir, if "F" is for "fuckable," then "G" must be for _'get on with it' "._

And Ferdinand does, _oh,_ he does. Hubert had expected the sunset-haired man to keep working his cock with his hands, but instead, Ferdinand sinks to his knees, enveloping the entirety of Hubert's manhood with the warm, wet, heat of his mouth.

And Hubert moans, not a quite, contained little sound, but a full-bodied _howl,_ as he feels a pleasure more intense than anything he has ever experienced in his life. 

And Ferdinand's hand guides Hubert's into those long, beautiful orange locks, and Hubert _pulls,_ and the humming, gasping sound Ferdinand makes nearly undoes Hubert, right then and there.

He barely manages to regain his composure enough to speak. "I could say that H is for _hungry,_ given how eagerly you're devouring my cock right about now...but you deserve something far kinder, my Ferdie. Handsome, perhaps? Heart-aching, heart-warming, heart-stopping....would it be blasphemous for a black-hearted bastard such as myself to call you "heavenly"?"

Ferdinand slides off of Hubert's cock with a _pop._ His eyes are sparkling. "As delectable as you taste, I've realized that we cannot continue our little game if my mouth is otherwise occupied." He stands up, but only for a moment before immediately falling to his knees once again.

Only this time, he is facing away from Hubert, revealing the taut, taunting curve of his ass and the barest hint of his most secret place to Hubert's ravenous gaze.

"I is for _inviting,"_ Hubert says, as he murmurs a lubrication spell and slowly inserts a single slicked-up finger into Ferdinand's entrance.

The Aegir noble cries out as his defenses are breached, but almost immediately regains his composure enough to speak. "Well, then J most assuredly stands for ' _just fuck me already, von Vestra_ '."

"All in good time," Hubert murmurs, adding a second finger and beginning to make a gentle thrusting motion in and out of the other man's hole. "But I'm thinking, von Aegir, that I'm enjoying teasing you so much...shall I, perhaps, make you earn that right?"

"E-earn it?" Ferdinand chokes out.

"Hmmm...let's see..." Hubert pretends to consider, even though he has already decided exactly what he will command Ferdinand to do. "I think I want to hear the next....four letters of the alphabet from you. Yes, indeed. Give me K, L, M, and N, and then I'll take my turn using this cock you seem to be so desperate for, dearest Ferdie."

"Nnnnngh..." Ferdinand is practically glowing with a wild inner light as he writhes around Hubert's intrusion. "Hubie, oh, Hube, that simply isn't f....f-fair....not with you....doing....keeping doing....doing t-that...." 

Hubert could end the game now - relent, be kind - but he finds that he has little inclination to do so. He's enjoying the effect he has on Ferdinand far too much. "The longer you complain, the longer you'll wait. Four letters, von Aegir, to prove you're worthy of being fucked on my cock." (He knew that Ferdinand was worthy. Oh, was he ever. He was, in fact, the only person Hubert could ever think of _wanting_ to fuck like this, but...well, it turned out he was rather fond of teasing, and why deny himself?)

Ferdinand is far beyond "wrecked" and well into "utterly destroyed," but he somehow manages to get the words out, all panting breaths and staggered moans: "Kiss me....Lick me....Make me yours..... _Now!"_

The Imperial Minister chuckles lowly, genuinely impressed that his new lover has managed to keep up with their little game even as Hubert's fingers curl upwards and find his most sensitive spot. "That last one was a little bit of a stretch, but I'll take it."

 _"_ Rather you....take me...." gasps out Ferdinand, his long orange hair practically shimmering in the low light as he tosses his head back and moans in pure ecstasy.

 _"Okay,_ then," Hubert responds, heavily emphasizing the first letter. It's not a compliment, or even really a descriptive word of any sort, but the rules of their game have been stretched so far at this point that neither man particularly minds.

 _"Prepare_ yourself," he continues, popping the "P' sound with pursed lips as he slides his cock fully inside Ferdinand's waiting asshole.

Hubert starts out slowly, barely moving at all as he takes the time to appreciate the tight walls of von Aegir's ass squeezing around him, pulsing, clenching, welcoming him inside. It's so good. So hot. So perfect. They make a stunning picture, together like this, and for the first time in his entire life, Hubert truly feels as though he is a part of something beautiful.

"F-faster...." Ferdinand's long fingers grasp and tug at the bedsheets as he arches upwards, trying to press his body as closely as possible to Hubert's. "N-no wait.... _quicker...."_ A brief, smug smile graces his stunning, sweat-drenched face as he manages to continue the alphabetical chain even though the fiendishly difficult "Q".

Hubert begins to thrust in earnest, and it becomes impossible for either of them to get out more than a single broken, murmured word at a time. Still, they endeavor to continue the game-turned-so-much-more even as Hubert steadily increases his pace with every deep, thorough thrust.

"Ravishing." dark-haired mage kisses the word like a brand into Ferdinand's temple.

"Seductive," is the sunlit cavalier's rebuttal, tracing the letters with his tongue in the hollows where his lover's neck meets his shoulder.

"Tempting," Hubert volleys back, angling his next thrust so as to squarely hit Ferdinand's prostate as he sheathes his cock.

"Utterly, completely, desirable." Another cheat, honestly, but both lovers are far past caring.

Both can feel pleasure building and tightening deep within their loins, like a wave about to crest. The end is rushing towards them both, and their whispered, moaned, single-word gasps come more rapidly, desperately trying to complete the game before reaching climax.

Hubert's "Vocal....and....so voracious" is met with Ferdinand's bitten-off moan of "Wonderful, wild, wanting, wanto _oooohhh_ n," the last one dissolving into a wordless vocalization.

And then the mage finds himself stuck with "X," teetering on the verge of losing control. Lacking either the time or the mental capacity to think up a proper X-word, he allows himself to stretch the rules a bit, here at moment of his undoing. "Exhilarating....ex....ceptional....ex.....exactly everything I've ever desired, oh, _oh,"_ and with that final, honest, admission, Hubert comes, filling Ferdinand's tight heat with every drop of his built-up passion.

Ferdinand follows only a moment later, painting their pressed-together chests white, a single word on his lips, repeating over and over again:

"Yours....yours....I'm _yours!"_

It is not until several moments later, spend cleaned from their chests and sheets wrapped around their naked bodies, that Ferdinand realizes something. "We forgot 'Z'," he points out, pressing a kiss to each of Hubert's fingertips in turn.

Hubert considers for a moment, then exhales a heavy sigh against Ferdinand's shoulder, admitting defeat. "I find that I can't think of a single word to finish the game, dearest Ferdie. I must concede."

"Zealous," Ferdinand responds, his smug tone making it clear that he had already had the word in mind. "You may claim not to put any stock in the Goddess, but you certainly worshiped _me_ quite thoroughly, my rather intense darling."

"The victory is yours, then," Hubert admits, pressing a deep, thorough kiss to Ferdinand's lips.

"Then to the victor go the spoils," Ferdinand murmurs before diving beneath the sheets to once again claim his prize.

(Later, when they finally make their way down to breakfast, Hubert wears his shirt only partially buttoned in the front, allowing the previous night's company to clearly see the love bites trailing down his neck and along his collarbone. He makes a particular point to thank Lorenz for teaching him "such a wonderful game," and the look on the Count's face is not one he will soon forget.)


End file.
